Valiums
by helliiion
Summary: She's found that if she turns off all the lights and immerses herself in darkness, before lying in bed and shutting her eyes, she can still see the way his face screws up when he screams for her to let him stay. She really doesn't think that he would care anymore—she hasn't seen him cry in a long time. Tate doesn't cry when he's alone, not anymore.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** This is the beginning to a long fiction I have in the works/planned and I'll be sure to update whenever I can. Takes place very much post American Horror Story, Season 1 and the dynamics have shifted a bit. The warnings should speak for themselves, but I will tell you that there's violence/gore and there will be smut. I guess I'll have more to say about it, the longer I've worked on it- but for now; enjoy and feel free to leave a review because that'd be lovely. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

She feels the same, but different in a way that was something at both a relief and a frustration for the blond ghost. With lips painted cherry red and hair unpinned, he's got her facing away and his eyes closed to be sure he can keep his focus on one thing. He doesn't kiss her, doesn't utter her name; hell, he's hardly even paying much attention anymore. It's just to let off some steam and maybe it's sick, but he knows that a certain teenage girl is off somewhere and she knows that Tate is busy fucking his way out of his perpetual depression—or maybe it's not depression anymore. No, lately he'd been angrier than anything, and maybe that was why young Moira's porcelain skin was riddled with bruises that flowered out blue and yellow like ink dripped into a cup of water.

When he's finished with her, he doesn't mind to speak, or clean up the mess—he simply pulls his jeans back up to rest on bony hips and straightens his belt, before exiting the room like a pouting child.

* * *

The house is old and it's quiet just like always—save for the groaning that the drywall makes as it fights against the wind from the outside. Like the sound your stomach makes when it's tossing and turning, just before it lurches and spills its contents onto the cement.

Violet's got honey hues lowered and a cigarette between pursed lips at the filter as she runs careful digits over a tiny plastic pawn for a forgotten chess board. She'd taken to melting a few of them a couple months back—watching carefully as the shapes warped and burned her fingertips. She tries to tell herself that it's just boredom, but she knows it's something else that fuels her need for destruction. She'll settle for the first for now.

"What are you doing?"

Of course she recognized the voice, because it was just in the basement, telling Moira to put her nose to the brick and keep quiet.

She knows why he does it and she knows that Moira isn't the only lady of the house that Tate takes advantage of anymore and the idea makes her want to dry heave—nearly does. Not out of jealousy, more out of disgust. Eyes roll in their sockets and the ghost-girl looks up to meet his gaze with disdain. The only way she'll ever look at him anymore is as if she's looking at something that's dying and unraveling before her. The way someone might look at something dead, or something broken. He was both things, though the second one was more a secret than the first.

"I'm counting the tiles on the floor. Go away." She doesn't mean it, so he's still there and he's taking a few steps closer, before he's standing just off to her side. He remembers a time that she said those words with meaning behind them.

"What's that?" he asks, canting a chiseled jaw to the side as dark irises hone in on the chess piece that's still clutched between angry fingertips. With the question, she flicks her wrist and sends the hollow pawn skittering across the room, both of them watching as it spins and sputters to a still out of the room and down the hall.

"Fuck off."

And he does—but not before he walks out and picks up the chess piece, inspecting it in his careful fingers like something that was fragile, something that would crumble and whither away like sand held together with water. He recognizes that he's holding something he held a long time ago while he and Violet shared smiles and stolen glances, instead of slaps and snide remarks.

It doesn't mean much to either of them anymore.

* * *

She can't remember how long it had been, or if it really mattered at all in the first place. Some days felt like minutes and others seemed to go on for years at a time. She never saw anyone anymore and it was by her own choice—others had only proven to complicate things. Loud, too much talking; and it reached a point to where even the sound of anyone's voice at all made her cringe. So, she kept to herself and she hadn't even spoken to her family in God knows how long either.

Violet was beginning to think that she'd told everyone in the Murder House to 'go away' at one point or another.

She's found that if she turns off all the lights and immerses herself in darkness, before lying in bed and shutting her eyes, she can still see the way his face screws up when he screams for her to let him stay. She really doesn't think that he would care anymore—she hasn't seen him cry in a long time. Tate doesn't cry when he's alone, not anymore. He used to, back when things were still new and she was getting used to being a corpse in a catacomb. He would curl up into a corner in the basement and let tears cut paths down his cheek; he'd even call out her name sometimes, so loud his voice broke and splintered like a chair that had supported one too many bodies. He used to be broken, but she's not so sure anymore.

She preferred him broken, because at least then she could get some sort of sick satisfaction out of his pain.

Oh, but she's going to feel satisfied after tonight; she's sure of it. She's already knocked him out and taped his ankles and wrists to a chair in the basement so she can carve him like a jack-o-lantern. He'd been pouring himself some whiskey with eyes lowered and long, dexterous fingers wrapped around the circumference of the glass when she snuck up on him with a metal baseball bat in hand. The sound it made when it collided with his skull was enough to elicit a sick grin on the girl's lips as she watched him go limp and fall down to the floor. Duct tape wound over and over around his wrists and ankles—keeping them tight against the framework of the chair so he couldn't get free; only then did she leave him slumped over and out like a light while she smoked another cigarette.

When he wakes up, she's made sure that she's the first thing he sees. Long honey tresses that hang past her shoulders and a tiny smirk on her lips- smoke billows out through Violet's nostrils like two angry twin dragons as she taps the filter of her cigarette. She's contemplating what to do with him and it sparks a fear within the male that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Because after everything, he knows that she comes in with a close second for the role of angriest ghost in the house. She'll beat the piss out of him and he's aware that she has plans to hurt.

"What are you gonna do? Chop my dick off or something?" His voice is a purr in her ear, almost as if she's the one tied to the chair.

"Please- like I'm that unimaginative."

Legs uncurl from beneath her and Tate watches like he's a mouse being stalked by a cat, and with the way she nearly sashays over to him, he'd started to think maybe this was a ploy to seduce him.

The thought is quickly erased when the cherry of her cigarette is shoved into the side of his neck.

An angry hiss leaves the male's lips as his skin melts and burns under the embers being twisted in. Knuckles white hot and a curl on his lips as he grinds his teeth to try and ignore the pain—he wants to hit her, yell at her, anything to make her stop and take out the frustrations she's pounding into him. Oh, but she doesn't care; in fact, she's very much enjoying the look on his face as she uses his flesh for an ashtray. She's Zeus and she's gutted him and strung him up to deliver him to Tartarus, but she's beautiful; and that was the sickest part about it. As much as Tate wanted to slap the pretty little smirk off the ghost-girl's face, he got a thrill out of it that was absolutely downright disgusting.

"I think I'll cut your tongue out." The notion and the sound of her voice brings dark eyes to snap up and gaze at her face, as if he didn't believe her- didn't think she had it in her. She notices it, but continues anyway. "Yeah, I think so… after I put the baseball bat to better use," Violet added, scratching her chin and wrinkling her nose lightly for added effect, as if contemplating what she was going to eat for dinner.

The laugh that leaves his lips is wicked and he's wearing a Cheshire grin as he gazes up at her with a brow raised. Adam's apple bobbing in his throat and sweat clinging to his temple, it's almost like he's mocking her with the sick curl of his laughter—it makes her insides squirm and a light flush dance over her cheeks. She's doubting herself.

The slap that sounds through the basement is sharp and crisp; the palm of her hand stinging and Tate's head hanging with his laughter cut short. Yes, his cheek was definitely smarting now, along with the sting on the side of his neck.

"You know, Tate, I'm really tired. Your voice is like nails on a fucking chalkboard anymore."

She's shaking her head and tugging her shirt off; it makes his eyes widen like saucers as he watches soft and supple skin become exposed to the dim lighting. She doesn't give a shit because he's already seen her and her plain white bra keeps his eyes from wandering too much. No, she's too busy twisting the shirt up tight as if she were to wring it dry, so she can gag him with it and shut him up. Once the cloth is between his teeth and tied at the back of his head, Violet takes a step back to admire her work, and then turns around to fetch the bat.

Just a few swings—not enough to knock him out, but enough to make him want to empty the contents on his stomach.

The first blow is to the male's left shoulder, and it hits with such a crack and a pop that he's screaming into the cloth gag and his muscles are flexing under the bindings to try and free himself. She's broken something and it brings a satisfied grin to the little flower's face. The second blow is to his temple and she makes sure it's not hard enough to knock him out again—but she knows he's seeing stars afterwards because his eyes go wide and his head hangs, blinking hard as he tries to regain his vision, and possibly his hearing. Finally, she takes the gag off and discards it to the floor—Tate is spitting towards the ground and his chest is heaving for air as his brain begs for more oxygen. She can't help but like him like this; maybe even enough to forgive him, though she knew that wasn't really the case. Blood cuts a trail down the side of his head and he leans awkwardly in the chair to avoid any weight on his left shoulder—she likes him beaten and broken. He's beautiful like this.

_Closer, closer, closer_—she rounds in towards him until her face is mere inches from his; eyes on him and a delicate hand out to cup the hard lines of his jaw.

"My, my, my; how the mighty have fallen," she whispers to him and her breath is hot on his face. She still smells like vanilla and strawberries.

It doesn't stop him from glaring daggers back at her and shaking his head, before she closes the gap and presses feverish lips to his own. No, of course he has no idea how to react because he hadn't felt her kiss in years—so long that he thought he might have lived a thousand artificial lives in between. Her tongue slipping between his chapped lips to run over his front teeth and to his canines is enough to make his dead heart skip more than the blow to the head had.

She just wants to taste him, before she cuts his tongue out.

When they break apart, Violet wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and Tate gazes up at her with parted lips and confused eyes. He understands—she's more like him than she will ever really admit and that's half the reason why she still hates him.

"You're just a scared little girl. Violet. You're not afraid of me anymore, you're scared of yourself. You—"

His words are cut short when the honey-eyed girl fishes out a pocket knife and flicks it open; filling the house with the sounds of his gargled out screams and pleas for her to stop.

She doesn't stop until he's silent.


	2. Chapter 2

It's still light out when she unwinds the tape from his wrists and ankles.

He's out cold and the front of his shirt is stained cherry-red, stuck to the skin beneath it with the filth. Tape free from flesh; it leaves the skin behind shinier and redder than it was before. She doesn't care anymore because she knows the next time she sees him, he'll be good as new. His screams and the way he would tremble under his bindings—it only served to satisfy her for so long.

At the end of the day, she still never made it to age eighteen.

* * *

"Where'd you put it?"

"Put what?"

"You know what," he snaps with a look in Violet's direction. This is the first she's seen him since she killed him in the basement. "I mean what'd you do with it when you were done?"

He means the tongue she cut out of him and he's finally grown the balls to approach her about it. He stands a few feet off and he's fine now. Not a scratch on him and the appendage is there, so he's talking again. It makes her want to repeat the action just for some peace of mind for a while.

"I put it in a jar and then stuck it in the fridge." She answers the question like he's stupid and the answer should have been right in front of him.

Violet watches carefully and his hand grips the handle to the fridge and opens it—she's quick to round her way to the other side of the island as well. She's just as curious as he is, though she would never admit to it. She nearly forgot that she'd saved it.

Both sets of eyes hone in on the jar, and it's empty; as if it never even happened.

"What were you going to do with it? If it didn't, you know—disappear?"

"I was going to make you eat it." She's dead serious and she had already planned it all out. She would have knocked him out again, tied him up to the same chair, and then shoved it down his throat—hands clamped over his mouth and nose until he swallowed, or drowned in his own vomit. She's not sure which one would have been better.

"Oh."

* * *

She's alone and she's been soaking in a warm bath for almost an hour now.

Staring at tile walls, she twirls a bit of wet hair between her index finger and thumb. She remembers a time when Tate held her and cried in her ear while the room spun and crumpled in on itself in her vision. She doesn't even remember dying and she can't recall seeing a light. A lot of people talked about seeing a light at the end of a tunnel when they have close calls with death. She wonders idly where the light could be coming from, anyway. She hadn't been heading anyplace but where she already was, and the house was a simple prison; it was anything but bright. It was dark and infested with mice and spiders.

She remembers gagging around Tate's long digits down her throat and emptying the contents of her stomach.

Not enough to save her.

She remembers the way he whispered her name and cooed sweet nothings into her ear while she tried to grip the edge of her very life, just before toppling over.

Not enough to save her.

However, she doesn't remember actually falling asleep and letting the world black out, and she feels rather disappointed. How anticlimactic.

Violet lets her fingers trace the shapes of flowers on her bare abdomen. Shallow pooled water follows the movements like ribbon dancers and her honey hues follow the trails idly. The sound of the wood floor creaking just past the door to the bathroom sounds and she knows he's there. He must have heard the bath run and now he's curious. The groaning of the floorboards halts—he's standing right outside the cracked door and he's listening. Tate's gotten very good at picking out the sound of her breath hitching and the way the water sloshes when her back arches.

Just to taunt him, she lets digits slip between her legs, lets her breath catch on her tongue likes she's surprised. She's not surprised and, quite frankly, she's bored. Getting off with Tate listening in through the door will fill her time.

She's not serious at first, not really feeling it and it's mostly just for show, but after a while of tracing rapid circles and then plunging thin fingers into her heat, her breath hitches for real. If she shuts her eyes so hard they hurt and crease her cheeks, she can recall a time that it was someone else touching her. Eyes half-lidded and blond hair messy, sweat on his temple as her legs wrap around his hips; they dig into her inner thighs. She remembers curling her toes into the back of his calves and arching up into him as he fills her up and claims her virginity as his.

Her mind wanders and her fingers curl inside her warm walls—she recreates Tate taped to the chair in the basement again. The way he screams into the cloth of the gag and muscles flex as he tries to free himself fruitlessly. Whines leave the little flower's lips as she touches herself to images of him spitting blood to the basement floor, gagging on his own tongue as she carves it from the cradle of his jaw.

"Tate."

"…"

Silently, he slips into the bathroom, having heard his name, wet on her breath. Her eyes don't open, but she knows he's there and she doesn't have the willpower to shoo him away. She wants him there because sometimes her hand just isn't enough.

But his is.

He's pulling off his shirt and leaning over the edge of the tub to kiss her, larger hand than hers between the girl's thighs to push her own away and fill her up with nimble digits. It's enough and at the time it's okay because she's needy and her lips are chapped from chewing on them—she knows she'll be angry later. She'll want to kill him; she'll want to kill herself. He touches her and his eyes never close; he watches her face and his brow knits like he's cradling someone who's crying, not working their way towards orgasm.

"Violet."

"Stop."

He obeys and his fingers stop moving, so Violet cants her hips into the heel of his hand, a groan in protest. "I didn't mean that—stop talking."

"Oh."

He's doesn't kiss her anymore, because she doesn't seem to like it, he's just watching as she writhes in the water and digs her nails into his arm to leave red crescents behind. Jaw set and lips pursed—he's quiet and he's nearly holding his breath like a prisoner in his chest when she arches and whines; velvet walls hug his fingers and flutter like butterfly wings in a thousand crescendos as she peaks with a tiny gasp. He remembers what her climax felt like around his own arousal years ago.

He doesn't know what to do, or what to say when she opens her eyes and pushes his hand away from between her legs—like a slap on the wrist for ever having walked in on her in the first place. She looks at him as if she's sizing him up for a fight, or as if she's wondering what to do with him at all. He's still breathing heavy with arousal and his cock is straining against the zipper of his jeans, but he's filled with a sudden fear, mostly because he knows she has thoughts of shoving his face in the tub until he fills his lungs like water balloons.

"I died in this bathtub."

Her words elicit a look from Tate—he eyes her as if she's just said the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. It was true, but he has nothing to say. He can only stare at her and wonder why she's brought it up all of a sudden.

"You shoved your fingers down my throat… you were yelling my name over and over again. You kept telling me I was going to be okay because I didn't even really take that many. Told me to keep my eyes open," she continues and her gaze is locked on him, accusing now. "Why did you lie?"

"About what?"

"About the pills, you shit-head. You kept telling me that I didn't take that many and that I was going to be okay." She's angry and it's clear in her stare.

Tate doesn't know what to say and he's not really sure why she's questioning him all of a sudden. "Because I didn't want you to be afraid."

"But you knew I was going to die."

"…"

Violet's gaze lingers for another moment, before she stands up—water falling down the dips of her body to make a jump down towards the tub once again. She steps aside him and onto the tile floor, wrapping a towel around herself, before walking out of the bathroom and leaving him alone to his thoughts once again.

* * *

"Do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"No—cut it out."

"Fuck you," she spits the words angrily because it's no longer a game; no longer a ploy to make him squirm. She's already achieved that and now it just feels like he's reprimanding her.

She's been trying to hand over the small X-ACTO blade for the past ten minutes now, begging like a whore on her knees for the male to slit her throat. The whole time, a smirk has been plastered on pillow-soft lips and he knows just why she's doing it. She's torturing him and she wants to get him angry. She wants to see the half of him that secretly scares her; the monster part of him that he stuffs down deep. She wants to see the side of him that smashes Hayden's head into the brick wall of the basement when she's running her mouth; the side of him that took three weapons into a high school and killed fifteen kids.

"Stop it, Violet," he snaps and there's an anger there that wasn't in the room a few seconds ago.

"Do it and I'll stop. I might even forgive you—you never know."

"I hate you." He's never said the words before now and there's a fire in his eyes that convinces even himself that it's true.

It's okay because she hates him too. The three words don't upset her and they hardly even surprise her. In fact, she seems pleased with the confession; like she's waited years to hear it. She has.

Violet brings the blade to her own neck and slices fast and deep—blood pouring from her jugular and painting the front of Tate's shirt, warm and red.

* * *

"You know, I bet you have this idea that you're being clever. In trying to piss me off, I mean." His voice is like the slow, soft rumble just before a storm erupts and rips trees right from the earth. He's sitting at the kitchen table and he's staring down at her. Violet's in a pool of her own blood, but her neck is without a scratch and good as new—her vision is coming back in patches as she wakes up from an artificial death.

Besides the fact that the sight of her in bright red is one that makes him want to fuck her stupid in the mess, he finds her quite beautiful this way. Beautiful, but infuriating and he wants to slap her for slitting her throat right in front of him.

"You're being a petulant child. You can kill me as many times as you want—kill yourself in front of me however you like; it won't change what you are and what happened." His voice is cold and mean.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you right back."

"Why _don't_ you?"

The question makes him go quiet and his eyes go round like saucers, before they squint at her. He doesn't know what she's playing at and he's fairly convinced that she's not even so sure, herself anymore. She just plays mean to hide away her bitterness—she says things that catch him off guard just because she likes the reaction.

However, she looks serious this time.

"It's because you won't take what you want. You're too afraid to try anymore," she says, and now he's the one that eyeing her with spite in his gaze and knuckles wound white as he forms fists with his hands. "You're afraid of being told to go away. You're too chicken-shit to be who you really are because you're afraid I won't like you."

"Stop it."

"I've got news for you, Tate; I don't like you. In fact, I don't think I've ever put so much energy into disliking someone else in my entire life, but you deserve it," she sneers, and she's still going on, trying to piss him off further, and it's working.

"Stop it, damn it!"

"Fuck you, Tate. You wanted to be the one to drag the blade across my throat and you know it."

She's still seated in the pool of her own blood and her final statement alights his eyes with a fire; anger she hasn't seen in a long time. It takes only a few seconds for him to clear the room and end up on his knees, at her level and right in front of her with flared nostrils and angry breathing. Violet holds his gaze and doesn't dare break it, like staring into an angry bull's eyes while wearing all red.

And then he kisses her, because maybe he did want to be the one holding the blade that split her skin. Maybe he just wants her to shut up for once.

Violet is on her back in a second and he's nudging her knees apart to fit himself between—lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down her porcelain neck to the base where tendons meet in the middle at her collar bone. She's not resisting; in fact, she's canting her hips up against his leg that's wedged in between both of her thighs—his hands are skimming up the sides of her and cupping breasts through the fabric of her shirt that's still wet and clinging with the maroon of her own blood.

"No—"

"What?"

"Your mouth instead, I mean..." Her voice is hushed and it's like a hum hallelujah to his ears.

He complies; leaning down to nip at the visibly hard bud in the middle of her breast through the shirt—the taste of metal on his tongue; it makes him want to lick all the red off of her and hear her purr out filthy, dirty things. He tries to dip a hand under the hem of her shorts, but she shoves his hand away and works at his belt; undoing his jeans instead and pushing them down mid-thigh to allow his hard and heavy arousal freedom from the bindings of clothing.

She doesn't want foreplay and the look in her eyes is serious when she shimmies and shifts out of both her shorts and underwear.

"Come on," she hisses, wrapping legs secure around his waist and pulling him in so his cock rests against the juncture between her heat and her thigh—dull and aching. He's never wanted to tear her apart and break her down so badly before and it scares him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, stop being a shit-head and fuck me."

That's incentive enough for him, and he reaches between the two of them to position the crown of his shaft just at her need—and when he angles his hips forward sharply and fills her up with one swift motion, Violet whines and drags nails across his shoulders.

"Ow—"

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No. I'm not." And he's not, because he knows she'll get over it and he felt a lot worse when she clubbed him over the side of his head with a baseball bat.

A hiss in frustration when he thrusts into her again and the force slides them up the surface of the floor; slick and slippery with the blood of her split jugular earlier. However, she finds that if she keeps her ankles locked behind his back and arms behind his neck, she can ride out the momentum of his pushes and return right back with the soft slapping sound of skin and a wet whine on her breath.

"You're_ so_ tight." He's groaning and his hair is hooding his eyes as he lets his gaze fall for a moment to watch the place where he enters inside her and then pulls back out.

"Shut up."

"No."

Now he's elicited a grin on her lips as honey eyes stare up at him. Winding her hand back and rounding it off, her palm collides with the side of his face with a light crack—not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make dark eyes dilate and a low growl to rise up from deep in his throat. She wants him mean and she wants him rough. She doesn't want to be babied and he can recognize it in her stare; it brings his hips to slam forward into hers with a force that pushes her up the floor beneath them once again, the squeak and squeal of slippery blood sounding around them.

When Violet comes hot and wet around him, she gasps and arches like she's been underwater for years and she's just now surfaced to fill her lungs with air. Tate doesn't stop even with her walls are fluttering like a dying heart; and when he's close, he tries to pull out, but her legs hug him to her like a stubborn vice.

One, two, three more pushes and the throb of his orgasm washes over him like a cold shower—muscles pulling and shaking below his flesh as his neck tenses and he fills her up with hot ribbons of his release.

They stay like that and bask in the afterglow for only a moment, fighting to catch their breath and steady their thoughts, before Violet presses palms to his chest and pushes him away. It's done just as quickly as it started and she slips on her underwear, not bothering with the shorts, before heading back up the stairs to probably take another bath.

He's not sure what she wants to wash off more; the blood, or his touch. He doesn't care.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Sorry this took a bit longer than my other update[s]. I like to write them all in one sitting for the most part, rather than spread over the duration of a few days- it helps me to stay focused, and I just ended up being pretty busy. Just as a warning; there is attempted rape and talk of rape in this chapter. If that bother's you, just keep that in mind when going into it. Things are going to start progressing from here on out. It's gonna get interesting, I promise. Anyway, enjoy- and review because that'd be lovely too.

* * *

He hasn't seen her for weeks now and he's started wondering if she'd actually found a way out of the shit hole that they were currently living out the rest of their eternal lives in. Guess it's not really a life if you're just a body in a zipped bag.

She'd given him jerk-off material, that much was obvious, and before he started actually caring about where she'd went to, he spent the nights reliving the moment he'd fucked her into the wooden flooring in a puddle of her own blood. The cherry-red mess hadn't been there long and after she had left him to take another bath, Tate retreated back to the basement—only to find, later, that the mess was gone. He figured that maybe the guilt brought Violet to clean up the mess and rid the house of any evidence, but another part of him wondered if it just disappeared once it was out of sight; just like the tongue she'd put into the fridge neatly in a jar. Out of sight out of mind.

_If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it—does it even make a sound?_

* * *

It's just like it was back at the beginning—when she'd found out he raped her mother and she was just a child, or so it seemed now. Like back when she wasn't used to being dead and before she had realized that none of it even matters in the end anyway. He fucked her mom and she swallowed a bottle of pills in the upstairs bathroom. None of it mattered anymore because they were never getting out and the only people that could ever tell their story was themselves.

Pointless.

It was like they'd waltzed back to the start where she did everything in her power to avoid him. After a while, she didn't see the point and she'd run into him all the time—she'd drag him to the basement and torture him, but at least he had her attention some of the time. Since their encounter in the kitchen, Violet's ignored Tate's general existence. She'd had a moment of weakness and she'd done something stupid. She can't remember how many times she climbed up to the roof just to jump off head-first afterwards. There's a moment, just before you hit the ground and the world blacks out, where you see freedom. If there was a heaven, it was in those final seconds, before your bones break and your lungs cave in.

Of course she had seen him walking around, sometimes even looking through the halls for her, but she stayed hidden away from sight. To stand in his line of vision was to crumble and to fall to the floor like dust. She was not a slave to his love—if that's what she could even call it. She wasn't a slave to his hate either.

...

She's been spending her time with an XACTO blade—slicing lines in her flesh and then switching to a needle and thread to patch herself up again. It doesn't work so well because blood still traces lines down her flesh like melting candle wax down a wine bottle. She wonders how long it would take for her body to give in from blood loss; and the question brings the blonde female to cut open the stitches once again. She bleeds and mends, bleeds and mends, until she finally just bleeds and honey eyes fall back into their sockets for a few hours. Then she's alone and finally gets some sleep.

* * *

When she hears the front door opening and closing downstairs, Violet's up in seconds and flying down the hall. They never had visitors and the ghosts hardly ventured outside so the sound of someone crossing the threshold was like a siren in her ears.

Curiosity brings her eyes over the banister from upstairs—craning her neck to see past the chandelier in order to get a good view of the visitors. A group of teenage boys; about her age… about her age before she swallowed a handful of white pills, anyway.

"Hey. What are you doing?" Her voice echoes off the wall and it sounds foreign to her.

When she speaks, all three males look up and eyes flit about for a moment, before they actually find her and hone in. They hadn't anticipated her being there, of course—The Murder House was old and abandoned. 'Ghosts weren't real' and they had probably wandered in just to test that statement. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Who are you?" one of them asks, brow furrowed. He has dark hair and irises that are so blue, they're nearly white.

"Violet."

She's about to tell them to leave; maybe do something reckless to scare them off, but then she sees him. Tate is leaned out from one of the bedroom doors and he's craning his jaw to see the males downstairs—to see her talking to them. No, she's not about to let the opportunity go to waste.

Descending the stairs and joining the group of teens, she eyes them over as if dissecting each one. All taller than her and built. Two have dark hair—one with light eyes and one with eyes that are dark. They remind her of Tate's. The other is blonde and his hair is so short, it looks like he could be nearly bald. She doesn't care about their names and she doesn't care about where they're from, she just wants to follow them around. Not only does it make her feel a little less dead, but it wouldn't serve to make Tate very happy either.

* * *

She's clad in tight jeans and she's sitting cross-legged on the attic floor with the three other boys seated nearby. Violet's been telling them stories about the house—bullshitting some of it just to keep them interested and speaking loud enough so she knows Tate can hear them. She knows he's sitting down at the bottom of the attic ladder; waiting with wrung fists for the males to leave.

Of course they don't know what she really is. That she's been dead and gone for years. No, she's been playing the part of living girl well and they're all leaning in to hear more.

She learned that they all have relatively common names—Zach, Tristan, and Craig. She doesn't remember which is which and she doesn't really care because she's never going to see them again anyway.

"How do you know so much about this place?" one of them, Craig she thinks, inquires with a furrowed brow.

"I thought everyone knew about this place."

"Who's the craziest person who died here?"

The question makes her stop with words caught on her breath. Just what did the word, 'crazy' really mean anymore anyway? And so many 'crazies' occupied the Murder House, but there was one that stood out in her mind above the others. Was it because he was the 'craziest' or because he was the scariest? The two were completely different.

"Some asshole that took guns to Westfield and shot up the school in the nineties." Yeah, she settled with him just because he was sitting downstairs and he was listening very closely.

"Cool."

Their reaction irritates her, to say the least, and she works to produce a cigarette and light the cherry at the end—filling her lungs and cocking a brow. "He was a grade-A shithead with mommy issues, if you ask me," she quips. Downstairs, she knows a certain blonde-haired male ghost is cringing angrily.

...

She'd stopped paying too much attention to the teens a while ago; finishing up her cigarette and lighting another one just to keep her hands busy. They'd changed the subject and started talking about some guy they went to school with and something about a meth lab. Stupid and she's not really paying attention.

It wasn't until she hears her name uttered that she looks up from her cigarette and snaps out of her own thoughts. The blond, Tristan, was leaning over towards Zach and speaking low enough to where she can't really make out what he's saying from where she sits, few feet off. Eyes shifting in their sockets, she'd never really been all too good at reading lips either.

"What's the deal?"

They don't answer her; just keep talking amongst themselves, before looking her over. She feels like she's being dissected and all of a sudden, she regrets not telling them to piss off the second she saw them wander inside.

"No, seriously, what are you guys talking about?"

"Just about how you must have nice tits and it's a shame you hide them under oversized t-shirts." Craig nearly spits it out and he looks annoyed now—she doesn't know why, but she's sitting up straighter now and snuffing out her cigarette into the attic floor.

She thinks they must be joking, but the mood in the room has shifted to something much more sinister and she's not all too sure how to react.

"Quit it." She wasn't having it and she's not in the mood for a bunch of testosterone driven jokes that were only funny to them because she was the only female in the room. "I'm leaving." With that, she shifts on the floor to stand and walk away—but she doesn't even make it to the ladder, before a firm grip on her arm forces her to turn around with anger in her eyes.

"You're not going anywhere; not yet."

She should have known and the way that the dark- haired boy looks at her leads her to believe that he's being very serious. Just what'd she walked herself into? As dead as she is and as insignificant as it is when she gets hurt anymore; there's still fear in her heart and it kicks it into a steady beat that hammers against her rib cage. She's afraid—something she hasn't felt in a very long time.

"Let go of me." She manages to keep her voice calm and collected, despite the way her thoughts are thrashing around inside of her head.

"No."

His grip on her arm tightens and that's when she panics; trying to yanks herself free and attempting to knee him in the groin. Oh, but she's so small compared to all three of them and she hasn't felt so small in so long—it nearly breaks her. Hands that are mean and calloused hold her hard and nearly cause bruises to bloom on her porcelain flesh. They had ill intentions all along and she was stupid to have looked over it.

_So stupid and naïve sometimes._

She struggles and fights, but he gets her to the floor and it doesn't take long for the other males to swoop in and help to pin her limbs down. Violet is snarling and writhing—cursing at them and spitting in the closest teen's face in retaliation.

"Fuck's sake, shut up, or I'll shove your shirt down your throat," one of them utters and everything's been moving so fast and she's been so busy trying to wrestle them off, she hadn't even realized that they'd gotten her shirt off to exposed pearly skin and a plain black bra to conceal her modesty.

"Here's an idea; how about _he_ sucks your cock instead—because it's not going anywhere near me," she hisses, nodding between two of the males and getting just enough leeway to knee her closest attacker between the legs. A sharp groan and he draws away enough to keel over; and just as she thinks she has a chance of getting away, another takes his place—pinning her down with his weight and forcing her legs apart with his knee.

Done, done, done—she's finished and there's nothing more she can do, but wait for it to be over. She'd started to think that she had no more weaknesses; nothing left to lose if she was already dead. She'd rather jump off the Murder House roof a thousand times than be underneath a stranger while his friends hold her arms to the floor.

"Be a good little girl and keep quiet, huh? You might even like it."

She whimpers and lets her lids shield her eyes just as his hands reach into his pants. She'd never felt so weak before and it's like dying in the upstairs bathtub all over again.

Only this time it's worse, because the only person that's cradling her is bruising her body and purring disgusting things into her ear.

She hears him before she sees him—or feels the weight lifted off of her. Before the male can even undo his pants, he's off and he's across the room with blood gushing from his nose; coating the front of his shirt. A snarl's ripped through the room and it hardly even sounds human.

Violet's never seen Tate so angry in her entire existence.

The boy that was on top of her is now a few feet away, spurting blood from his nostrils and Tate's got him pinned to the attic wall by the neck with flexed fingers and eyes so wild, you'd think they could drill holes right through you. "Get the fuck out of my house, before I cut your friends' balls off and feed them to you."

The sound of knuckles hitting flesh and Tate's fist cracks against the other's temple, before shoving him to the floor.

And that was when the grip on her arms was released and Violet made a mad dash for a corner to keep safe in. Like a skittering mouse, she squirms into hiding and just wants to shower until she scrubs her flesh away.

With how much the boy had hidden away and drawn within himself lately, she'd forgotten how scary Tate really was. At the core of himself, he was a monster and he had taken lives with his bare hands- lives that were innocent and hadn't tried to rape a teenage girl in the Murder House attic.

She tries to follow as much as she can and she supposed that Tate didn't kill them solely because they'd be stuck in the house with them forever, but he certainly put all his strength into fucking them up. Broken noses and bruised egos—one of them had been shoved down the attic stairs and the others were trying to fight the ghost off in the process of getting the snot beat out of them.

Tate had nothing to lose and was a merciless entity; they had no idea just what he was capable of. Violet _did_ and that was why she watched both with interest and a cringing guilt that tugged at her insides.

At some point, Tate manages to get his hands on a metal crate and he clubs one of them over the side of the head with it. That was when they scattered.

"If you ever come back here, I'll make sure you can't walk back out." His voice is dark and she's not even sure if the teens heard him, before they took off running down the ladder and out the front door. She doesn't care anymore, she just feels uncomfortable in her skin—like she needs to shed it off and grow something new there.

...

"Violet; are you okay?"

"Yeah"

"Well, come out here."

She shifts and then moves slowly to stand up once again and walk over to him. Tate's got a cut on one side of his bottom lip and it blots cherry red on his skin—while one eye is black and blue up to the line of his brow. They'd gotten a few good swings in before he actually scared them off, but the evidence wouldn't linger on his flesh for long. He doesn't seem too bothered by it.

Instead, he bends over to retrieve her white t-shirt from the floor and then works to help her tug it back on so it falls loosely over daintily carved shoulders. She feels like a child again and she hates it more than anything she's ever felt before now.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You saved me."

"I know, but I can tell it makes you uncomfortable."

"Since when have you cared about that?" She regrets it the second it leaves her lips, but she doesn't know how to feel and she's quite sure her brain shut down the second the three males tried to make a pass at her.

Tate doesn't respond to it—he just sort of hangs his head lightly and shoves his hands into his pockets. He wants to leave, she can see it in the way he shifts.

"Why'd you do it?" She asks him suddenly.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean. Why'd you save me? It's not like I've got a life to lose; pain doesn't really mean so much anymore—So why'd you do it? You could have just left me to fend for myself. I don't need to be coddled."

"I know."

"So then why?"

"Because you would have cried afterward. I can't stand to see you cry."

His answer brings her amber eyes to snap up and study his face incredulously. For whatever reason, she hadn't been expecting his response to be anything of the like and it confuses her in ways she can't grasp. She just stares at him for a moment as if she's trying to solve a math problem that was written in font way too small to make out—he simply sighs and avoids her gaze in general.

"And what about you; would you have just sat down there and listened to it happen? Would you have cried?"

"Yes."

"Yes to what?"

"Yes to both." His voice is quiet. They're speaking hypothetically now and it's doing no good.

Violet takes a moment to collect her thoughts, before speaking again. "You know, that's how my mom felt. She cried after she was raped." It's obvious to both of them what she's referring to because her mom had been in the same position once with a man in a rubber suit. Different, but it was all the same in the end.

"Your mom's not you."

"So then why did you fuck her?" she asked; her words sharp and biting.

"Would you still hate me if it had been you instead?"

The question makes her lashes lower and bile rise up into her throat. She'd been caught for a loop—she hadn't anticipated it and she's never really asked herself such an important question.

"I don't know."

"Then why are you bitching about it?"

"Because you're no better than them." She means the three teenage boys he just beat to shit and then scared off.

"You know, a simple 'thank you' for saving your ass would suffice. You don't have to turn everything into something it's not," Tate snaps. He's angry and she can see it in the way he looks at her. "Hating you is really fucking exhausting, Violet—and I know it is for you too."

"You don't know anything."

"I know _you_."

"Go away." And she really means it this time, so he's gone in the blink of an eye.

Silence hangs over her and she lets the attic crumple in and swallow her up whole. In Tate's absence, she actually misses him; feels alone and afraid without him—things she hasn't felt in a long time and it scares her.

Scares her more than anything she's ever known.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note:** I've been rather slow with my updates lately; I apologize. I had this chapter half done for over a week and didn't really know how to end it, but I think it turned out nicely. It's just a couple hundred words shorter than the last couple, but the dynamics and everything is really going to shift in the next chapter and it'll be interesting. Keep in mind, like always, that the rating speaks for itself and know what you're reading. Enjoy and a review would be veryvery lovely- and next update should be faster as well!_

* * *

The day Tate finally finds out that his sister is dead is the same day that he first sees his father after nineteen years of haunting the same house.

Hours of yelling and crates spilled over in the basement was what came from his knowledge that Hugo hadn't actually run away to live his life elsewhere. Knowledge that he had been there all along and hadn't said a word to his son—left him to fend for himself in the mix of a broken family. Nineteen years of being a walking corpse in the Murder House and he hadn't known that his father was in the same boat. He'd always thought Hugo to have been the better person, but now he knows he was just born of swine and serpents. Nothing more.

…

When Tate's first face-to-face with his father, he has him against the wall in a choke-hold without any hesitation, a snarl hot on his breath. Hugo tells him to 'stop' with heated and rushed words—tells him that he's sorry and then tells him that he didn't mean to leave all his children to die.

Tate only lets go of his throat long enough to learn that Adelaide Langdon was hit by a car a few Halloweens ago, before he spits in his father's face and bashes his skull into the brick.

* * *

There's a groan that sounds through the entire house as a shelf crashes to the floor in the basement. Glass smashing mixes with the sound of screaming and yelling—it creates a terrifying cocktail that shakes Violet to the bone and keeps her rooted upstairs in the kitchen to listen. All at once very afraid and also intrigued, she pours herself a cup of tea with lashes lowered as she works to hear just what's happening under her feet.

She hears a muffled 'fuck you,' and has to guess that Hugo's woken up. A loud crash and a caterwaul like the one a cat makes when you step on its tail—she knows Tate's just going to wait until his father continues to wake up once again, before he kills him over and over until the burn in the pit of his heart goes away.

She knows it'll never really go away and that it'll always be there to haunt him in the back of his mind.

Violet wonders if he'll cry. The idea brings a sick grin to tug at the corner of her lips.

…

He doesn't cry.

When he emerges from the basement, he storms past her without a single glance and heads up the stairs without a word. Something in his eyes—something festering and something angry scares her.

She knows Tate's lost it when she goes in the basement to find Hugo Langdon gutted like a pig and choking on his own blood and teeth.

* * *

"I never had a funeral, you know," he mutters. He won't look at her—he's staring out the window in the upstairs bedroom.

"I don't care. Neither did I."

"…"

"Wonder what they did with your body." She has to imagine he's just a pile of bullet-chewed bones somewhere lonely and far away from the house. Somewhere his mother probably chose because she was sure that no one else in town wanted to see Tate Langdon have a proper burial. "Your head stone is probably beat to shit. People probably hated you even in death… still hate you." The idea makes her smile.

"At least I have a head stone somewhere out there."

"If there's anything left of it."

All she got in answer was a shrug, almost like he didn't even care about having his own retort. He probably didn't.

"So, what's your deal now? Daddy Langdon doesn't wanna hang out with you?"

"Nope, and I don't care either." His tone is flat and his eyes refuse to look at her—she can tell he's lying and that it's slowly killing him inside. He's still staring out the window and avoiding her gaze.

"Liar. All this time he's been here and you thought he cared. You thought he was out there and things would have been different if you ran away with him," Violet starts and her voice is malicious; there's new found venom lacing her words and she almost surprises herself with it. "Your life was doomed the second you left the womb. There was never any second option and there was never any what-if. Don't lie and act like that doesn't upset you."

"Fuck you, Violet, shut the fuck up."

"All along you were just an insignificant kid that never made anything of his own life other than taking others away. The only person that ever cared about you was your crazy mother—and what does that say about you?"

"Say one more thing about it and I will beat the shit out of you."

Silence sinks in between the two of them and Violet wears a shocked look of parted lips and eyes wide. Him threatening to hurt her? The idea seems so strange and she's almost sure that Tate's bluffing.

Almost.

He's finally looking at her now, but only just a sliver—jaw craned so he can gaze over his shoulder at her without really having to turn. She can hardly see the color of his eyes and she's just standing in his peripherals; almost like a warning. Something in the way he goes quiet and stares without really looking her dead in the eyes makes her think that he could be serious, but something compels her to continue. Bitterness and anger that swells and grows within her like a storm that waits to erupt and overflow; she's not done with him. Not done digging her teeth in and sawing, sawing… sawing away at the flesh.

Violet takes a step towards him with pursed lips and an angry gaze. "You'll beat the shit out of me? No you won't. You're too much of a pussy to ever lay a hand on me—because you're too afraid I won't forgive you. Your entire existence revolves around some dead girl who doesn't even love you anymore."

It only takes a second, he moves so quickly.

Long fingers flex and they reach out to snap around her arm like iron vices—it only takes him a moment to have her back shoved into the wall. Tate is only millimeters away from her and his nostrils are flared like a bull who's seen red.

"You wanna know what your existence revolves around, Violet? You have nothing better to do other than to follow me around and take out your anger on me. You're bitter and you hate that I fucked your mom, so you obsess over it and waste all your time trying to make me feel bad about it by acting like a petulant child," he snaps. His face is so close to hers and he's shaking now—his voice is getting progressively louder. For the first time in a long time, Violet was near the point of cowering. Something in his voice and the way his eyes are wide and pupils are dilated; she doesn't know what to say and she's too frozen in place to move.

"You say you hate me, but you won't just leave me alone and forget about me. So what the fuck does that say about you, Violet?" he asks, but she doesn't respond. She just stares him in the eyes with her jaw set. "What the fuck does that say about you?!" he repeats- and this time, his voice cracks because he's yelling in her face and he's shoving her tighter against the wall.

Quiet. Another silence falls between them and she doesn't know how to respond because she knows exactly what that says about her and she hates him for picking up on it.

So she spits in his face instead.

A snarl and the loud crack of his hand hitting the side of her face fills the room. She recoils and her hair follows to fall and shield her features.

He'd called her bluff and there was a smarting hand print on her cheek as proof.

"Don't act so shocked; you might as well have asked for it."

She only just now sees it, hadn't recognized it before. She'd stopped fearing Tate all together, stopped taking him seriously; and it had taken him backhanding her to regain that fear—to regain that respect and the knowledge that Tate Langdon was not a force to be reckoned with. He was a monster; an angry and violent monster with cruel intentions and only one weakness, and being his only weakness had made her forget that maybe he wasn't so sweet to everyone else.

Maybe he wasn't so sweet to her anymore either.

"I hate you." The words spit past her lips and ride out on angry breath.

"This is **your** fault. If you stopped bitching enough to realize that none of it even matters than maybe you'd feel a little better. You're dead, Violet, and nothing matters anymore because your whole family is dead too," he answers and his voice is angry—his face only inches away from hers.

"Only because of you."

"Shut up. I didn't kill them, I just fucked up. If I wanted them dead, they would have died long before they did, so stop it."

Violet's gone quiet and now she's simply staring at him. What was she supposed to be anymore? Angry? Upset? Both just seemed insignificant now and she hadn't even realized it until now. Nothing really mattered and it was his fault. Back when things did matter and her lungs needed oxygen and her cheeks could flush—it seemed as though she cared even less in a time when it was actually necessary.

She had never wanted a funeral until the opportunity was taken away from her.

"I hate you," she spits again because it's all she can muster. She's shaken and she hasn't felt this way in a long time.

"I hate you too. So now what?"

A silence falls between the two because neither of them really know what comes next.

And then his lips are on hers and they're wild and angry with need. Hot, passionate and hungry—Tate Langdon has the ghost-girl pinned to the wall by the force of his bony hips angling into hers and fingers held fast to each of her upper arms. Violet doesn't push him away, but she doesn't respond enough to make it satisfactory, so he digs his teeth into her lip and the pads of his fingers put enough pressure into her flesh to nearly bruise.

A warning; and she's finally a slave to his love—to his hate.

But Violet's angry too and the second she's able to, she bites down hard into his invading tongue.

"…-" A gasp and he pulls away enough to spit blood to the floor and suck on the appendage—waiting for the sting to stop while Violet stays rooted in place. Why wasn't she running? He answers the question himself because he knows perfectly well why she was still there. Because as much as she hates him, she still likes the feeling his dick gives her and she hates herself for it in turn.

Eyes flicker to rise and Tate meets her gaze with a seriousness that nearly makes her quiver—enough anger in his eyes to makes her feel all at once afraid and aroused at the same time.

And then they're kissing again; he's sucking the air out her lungs and filling his stomach with it—tongue down her throat and hands back on her flesh to leave hand prints all across her. Violet's legs hitch over his hips and Tate pushes in close enough to suffocate with rough and calloused touches. He's an angry hurricane of messy kisses and needy hands; fingernails digging into her skin and teeth snapping.

A monster.

She kisses him back with a fire that's only been ignited by his newfound violence; and she knows she's been lying to herself because she hates him for the exact thing she loves him for. As much as Tate acted like he was a crying mess of a man at her hands, he wasn't and that much was apparent now under the force of his touch. Constance once told her that Tate was sensitive and lacked grit, lacked a backbone—she wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe he just had a couple screws loose and she was the one thing that had kept him hinged together.

Strong and feverish hands skirt up her sides and bunch the female's shirt up her midriff in an unorganized fashion while teeth bite down onto the flesh at the side of her neck.

Violet hates him with every fiber of her being, but it's harder than ever to deny that she did in fact once love him when he's leaving hickeys to flower out in a trail down the hollow of her throat. Hitching breath and the slow, revolving cant of his hips into hers—she's left a trembling and aching mess for him to mold and shape like putty in his dexterous hands. A handful of shaking bones and soft words, wet on their breath—Tate Langdon works to push his hand carelessly into her jeans so he can finger-fuck the other into a hot and bothered mess.

Because he's always liked to have the upper hand and this seems to be the only way she'll ever actually give in to him.

Oh, but he's found another way and its working its way into his nerves and gripping on tight like a spreading plague. Little Violet Harmon responds to violence above all else and so it is violence that she will get.

A rather sharp angling of his hips as he ruts into her leg—she's finally decided that she's had enough and all she has to do to get him off her is send a harsh knee to his groin, before shoving at his chest with her palms. A gasp and a low whine in his throat as one of his hands comes to slap against the wall beside her; holding his weight and keeping his breath like a prisoner in his chest. Angry, but silent, he remains leaned over Violet, refusing to actually look at her while he stares at the wall in frustration.

One, two, three—

It doesn't take long for the pain to ebb away and Tate finally pulls back enough to meet the other's honey hues with gaze livid and lips in a tight line. Oh, there's no stilling of the storm this time, because it's working fast to bubble over and fester into a flood that will swallow her whole.

Done for.

Her words come out like venom on her tongue when she speaks. "If you thought I was going to fuck you again, you're—"

And then her words stop abruptly; cut off and choked away because Tate's forearm is slammed into her throat and pinning her back to the wall in a suffocating hold that they both know she could never escape. Harder and harder—the male ghost is leaning in on his arm that's slowly pushing in her windpipe, and Violet is gasping and choking while she claws at his forearm hard enough to rip through the skin and leave red trails in her wake.

He's not upset and he's not crying. He doesn't look at her with love in his eyes like he used to and he doesn't even look at her like he's angry; because in actuality, he simply doesn't have the energy to care about much of anything anymore. Violet is dead and he's long dead too—his brothers and sister, her mother and her father; they're all dead and didn't leave behind some story or legacy.

Dust that films and crusts over the top of a bookshelf that's been picked clean of any novels.

She struggles for a few moments and her soft petal lips turn blue, before her eyes finally roll in their sockets and she stills. Dead and done—for now, at least. He doesn't let her fall or crumple, no, because deep down and buried somewhere secret, he still loves her and still has to look out for her no matter how much she hates him. Hands take a gentle turn and slowly lower her limp body to the floor and Tate arranges her in what would be a comfortable position on her back. Almost like she's just sleeping; and really, that's all she would be doing for a few hours until she woke up. He knows she'll be angry and he knows she'll want revenge, but he doesn't care and can't really bring himself to.

Curiosity had gripped her and made her wonder about him. It had made her wonder where he put his anger and how he held such control. She had looked at him as weak before, but there was no question that now things would be different.

The sound of shoes scuffing the wood flooring and Tate Langdon leaves the room without another thought or word. Because when she was actually ready to talk to him again, he would be there—always was there—but for now, he would not be a pawn in her game.

Not now and not ever again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** I know it's taken me a longer time than normal to update this time, but that's only because I've landed a new job and it's taking up a lot of my time so I've been really busy. Updates should be more frequent again and thanks for being patient- reviewing would be lovely too. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

* * *

**1994**

One… two… three…

Boots scuff the floor and no one realizes just yet that they're walking to their graves with binders and books tucked under their arms.

A teenage boy talks to his friends—tired from a late night and an early rise from bed for classes. His very last words that ride out past his teeth have something to do with his algebra homework before his brains paint the lockers behind him.

The students don't quite scatter until they've realized it's not a joke and it's not like on television. No, this is real because Tate Langdon's showed up to school today with a Mossberg 500 and a M1911 pistol instead of a backpack.

A blood-curdling scream rings through the halls and Tate makes sure the next bullet rips through the throat of its owner to silence the sound—something more of a spiteful action rather than proactive, because more kids are screaming and the squeak of shoes clapping against the floor to get them to safer ground echoes in his ears.

Westfield High has just become his new playground because with a gun in hand, everyone suddenly takes you very seriously.

A teacher—one that he'd never had for any of his classes—exits a classroom and holds up his hands in an attempt to stop him; maybe to reason with him. There's no more time for words and talking won't stop a man who's made up his mind—who's lost his mind and clouded it with lines of methamphetamines.

The bullet hits the teacher right between the eyes and Tate keeps walking.

This is Hell and he's the Devil come with sunken eyes like twin graves and knuckles wrapped tight to a trigger. Somewhere, someone screams, but it's around the corner and back where he'd shot the first kid. The police would arrive soon and it'd all be over. They'd see him armed and immediately send bullets ripping through his flesh.

Let them try.

The heavy slide of the fore-stock and the shell of the bullet clinks to the tile floor.

The kid's back is turned to him and he has no idea who it is—but whatever's inside his head ends up over his friend's jacket. Kevin Gedman catches the boy in his arms by instinct, only to drop the body seconds later out of fear; eyes wide and a gag on his tongue.

Kevin runs down the hall and to the library before Tate can send the next bullet through his skull.

Tate had forgotten how many he'd killed by now and it was only a running tally. What was he trying to get at and did he have a body count? He wasn't even sure, himself.

The rubber of his boots squeals when he steps in blood—smearing it across the flooring. Almost done; almost over. It had to be. Either he'd be out of there and headed home, or the police would find him and shoot him down on site.

Eyes with obsidian irises roll back in their sockets and visions of blood rushing down the hallways eases his mind. A great tidal wave—a current of deep maroon so thick and so vast that it swallows him whole as it fills every corner of the school hallways. Sweet, wicked solace.

Tate Langdon rounds a corner and heads for the library with jaw set and gun at his side.

* * *

**Present day.**

He still doesn't know why he did it. He can remember in vivid detail the sounds of the screams and the metallic smell of blood stinging his nostrils, but he cannot place why he showed up at Westfield high- armed and high on a cocktail of hard drugs.

Maybe it was the voices in his head, or maybe it was the need for carnage and blood on his hands. He could have taken the lives of others because of the simple fact that his father wasn't around and his mother didn't care.

Afterwards, curiosity had taken hold of him and he'd read the news headlines. His mother cried a lot and let the newspapers stack up on the front porch— he'd take it upon himself to fetch them and rifle through. A monster; people coined him as troubled and lonely. 'An off-kilter teen with too many troubles and a black hole where a heart should be.' He didn't believe it at first and it only angered him, but he was smarter now. Tate's all the wiser and he's been around long enough to sit and stare at the walls—to delve deep into his own mind. Sick and twisted; every wicked thing said about him was entirely true.

Even now, he can the recall the smell of blood and the way it squelched under his boots.

It gives him a rush that makes eyelids flutter and lips purse into a tight line.

When the front door opens downstairs, Tate is snapped out of his thoughts and brought back to reality.

Oh, he can recognize the way high-heels click on the hardwood and in the simple way she walks through the threshold. He knows.

"Tate?"

Shit. Constance Langdon had wandered into the Murder House with intentions of seeing her long since deceased son and he wondered quickly if he could hide and pass it off like he hadn't heard her. Too late now—like she could sense exactly where he was, she was headed up the stairs and towards his old bedroom where he sat on the bed with a novel.

"Tate." His name leaves her breath as more of a statement this time because she's standing at the foot of the bed he lay on with the book raised just enough so that he doesn't have to look at her.

"What could you possibly want?"

"I'm checking on you. I want to make sure you're feeling alright."

Tate scoffs under his breath and keeps his eyes locked on the page in the book, not really reading anymore, but it's an excuse to ignore her. "I was better five minutes ago."

Constance clicks her tongue lightly and shifts where she stands, before rounding to the side of the bed to hover beside him and reach out to place a hand on his arm. It only takes a second for him to pull it away and withdraw like she's touched him with a fire-poker.

"Leave me alone."

"Tate, I only wanted to check up on you. You are my son, after all, as much as you like to pretend you're not."

He's up and off the bed, tossing the book to the mattress and walking out of the room without another word. Nothing she could do or say could ever patch over the past. Too many years of coming home from school to her passed out on the couch—doing homework alone and hiding in the outside shed when her current boyfriend took to throwing glasses to shatter at the wall in drunken anger.

* * *

"Your mom is so full of shit."

"I know."

Violet is sitting on the floor in the living room and Tate's seated on the couch. His mother had left quite a while ago, to his relief and he'd gone back to wandering around the house aimlessly and reading books he didn't really care about.

Violet has a cigarette between her lips and the lit cherry on the end is one of the only lights in the room. It's dark and dim—Tate can only see her in the silver cast of the moon through the window. She looks like an angel sent down from the heavens with cancer in her lungs and eyes that have hardened over time, but he would never say anything about it. Angels weren't allowed back through the gates of Heaven when they'd had the Devil between their pretty little legs.

After he'd suffocated the girl in the upstairs bedroom not any more than a week ago now, she'd been different. Less angry and less bitter—maybe she even enjoyed his company a little more now that she was afraid of him. He hadn't so much as touched her since, however; civil didn't necessarily mean they were sleeping together again.

Though he couldn't lie to himself and say he didn't think about it.

"Hand me that," he said—not a question or a request, but an order.

"What? My cigarette?"

He looks at the female like she's stupid because she clearly isn't holding anything else and it's enough to make her hand it over and he purses lips around the filter to fill his dead lungs. Sharing—yes, they were certainly getting along a bit better off than they had been.

Maybe he just had to snap her neck from now on to solve a problem.

"Your mom—she doesn't care as much as she lets on."

"She just wants to know if you're talking to me again. She cares just enough to be annoying."

Dark irises fall and he stares at the floor while Violet watches smoke filter out between his ivory teeth in the light of the moon. She wants to run her tongue over those teeth, but admitting that would be admitting defeat. She's still supposed to hate him—she still does, but it's hard to care enough sometimes.

Tate catches her eye and raises a brow—like he can read her mind and it makes her lower her gaze. Violet Harmon playing shy? Weird.

"Wanna watch me put it out on my tongue?"

Violet doesn't answer him; she just slinks over across the space between them on her hands and knees to sit at his feet on the floor. He knew the answer was yes because she was just as sadistic as he was.

Tongue past his teeth, there's a sizzle when the lit cherry of the cigarette is pushed into the wet flesh—he can feel it nearly melt around the heat and he can taste blood. There's a spark in Violet's eyes that makes his cock press to the zipper of his jeans because she's like a whore begging on her knees just to see his blood.

"What are you thinking about?" Tate doesn't know why he asks her this, but the way she's staring at him, it only makes him curious—with eyes wide and lips parted.

"Can you taste blood?"

"Yeah."

Her mouth is on his in seconds and Violet moves quickly to straddle the male; perching herself in his lap and pushing her hips roughly into his. He responds with such fervor that he almost leaves bruises, and her tongue is nearly down his throat—dancing along the crater of a bloody wound left by the cigarette.

He tastes like ashes and blood and it makes her insides squirm pleasantly.

A hiss on his breath when the tip of her tongue delves into the wound he'd burned into his; she pushes her hips into the male's once again, and it gives him incentive enough to reach between the two of them and undo the buckle of his belt, before pushing Violet's back to the couch.

She doesn't fight it this time, she doesn't protest and she doesn't spit in his face angrily. No, she reaches between them to do the same and push her jeans down—push his down. He doesn't look her directly in the eyes. He's rushed and he's quiet when he gets his underwear down and around his knees.

Her panties come off and he's inside of her before she can say a word about it.

A moan that's strangled and desperate like he's had the wind knocked out of him; she arches into the blond and digs her nails into his back. He's strong and he's aggressive and her hymen breaks to bleed pink around him.

Violet Harmon died a virgin and that gives him way too much satisfaction for her to be comfortable with it.

But she's not made out of porcelain and he knows enough to know that she doesn't want to be treated delicately. A flower, but she was carved from marble and forged from steel.

Finally a toy that he couldn't break.

Heavy breathing at her ear and another moan comes low in his throat—Violet cradles the back of his head and weaves fingers in his hair to bring him closer as Tate slams into her wildly.

When she crests, he lets a hiss ride out past his teeth, following soon after and emptying himself within her. She's gentle when she touches him; running the pads of her fingers down his back or through his hair. She knows she couldn't bring herself to admit to any feelings, but she can at least touch him in ways that she used to touch him back when she did admit to those sorts of things.

Tate's breath is heavy like he's surfaced from somewhere deep underwater and she's quiet as she lays underneath him—patient.

When he pulls away from her, he doesn't say a word and his dark eyes are lowered to avoid her gaze.

**...**

"Why'd you do it? Do you remember?" Her words are soft in the silence of the house and they're sitting on either end of the couch now, fully clothed.

"I can't remember why—I guess I just…" he trails off for a moment and it's almost like he's holding his breath, before he utters the last bit. "…snapped or something."

"Fifteen kids. That's a lot."

"Yeah."

"Were you friends with any of them?" The question seems silly, but she asks it anyway. Surely Tate had to have hated the kids whose lives he took.

"No, but I didn't necessarily dislike any of them either."

Oh. She hadn't been expecting that answer and her eyes are locked on the ghost-boy beside her in confusion. There are times when she forgets that his crimes go far beyond raping her mother. She often forgets that there was a time—long before she even knew him, that he brought weapons to a high school and took fifteen innocent lives. It's strange to think that Tate would be in his thirties now if things had gone differently for him and he would have lived past the age of seventeen.

"There were so many things going on that I couldn't control," Tate starts and his eyes are locked on the opposite wall, away from her. Something in his voice and the way he talks has her wondering if he's reliving things in his head. "I was high—it's hard to remember a lot of it, but there was so much blood. I just remember the smell… and the rush." He stops again and swallows thickly; like the scent still stings the inside of his nostrils. "I wasn't sad—I didn't feel anything except maybe anger. And with everything that was happening outside of my control, it was empowering to know that I could control whether those kids lived or died. I didn't pick and choose—I just killed whoever was in my way."

A silence falls between the two of them and Violet's at a loss for words. Tate turns slightly, enough to look at her through his peripherals before speaking again. "It was fun to play God."

Violet turns to meet his gaze, before answering. "You played Devil's advocate."

There's a sick grin on his lips in response to her words and in that moment, she knows that there's not a single entity on Earth that was closer to the actual Devil himself than Tate Langdon.


End file.
